


Cœur-à-Cœur

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [11]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1637, Orleans. A nightcap is the perfect time to share secrets, though the price could be a little higher than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cœur-à-Cœur

_Do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence_ __  
_you have not already tested._  
_~Elizabeth I_

Grimaud's throaty laugh came from downstairs; he was having a good time with his friend because Mousqueton was laughing too.

This unexpected reunion was doing his family a lot of good. Athos smiled.

Raoul loved Porthos on first sight, now they were friends and it showed. They were seated on their shirtsleeves by the window of the modest inn where his family took shelter for the night, Raoul's enraptured face upturned to his friend, drinking every expression from that bearded face. Porthos smiled at him, his big hand over the child's ribcage with the easy and soft hand of a person tending a small animal. They both smile as the tale fell from Porthos' mouth, something about talking animals. Athos didn't really pay attention, because his mind was wandering on what was going to happen when the tale is done and Raoul wouldn't be there to distract Porthos.

Raoul laughed, Porthos hand was tickling his gut but, strangely, Athos felt not the bite of jealousy; that seemed just right and natural. His mind wondered why he didn't felt the necessity to take his child and protect him from this man, as he felt with the rest of the world. The ex-musketeer heart weight heavily, he didn't want to ensnare Porthos in a web of falsehood like he did with his family. It was not the right thing to do when they had shared drink and risk for so many years. He paced the little room, racking his brain, trying to find a way to face the situation and he almost stumbled upon Grimaud who came to him with a tankard brimming with hot tea and whose hand made some signals to share an anecdote but Athos cut him short.

"Later," Athos took the tankard, "please."

A faint smile on his lips, a little hurt behind his eyes as Grimaud signaled that yes, they could exchange news later. Athos patted his back, an amicable sign to let him know it was not his fault that his master was not up for a chat. His servant left him with his worries, as he usually does in those situations. He lacked the words to thank the heavens that Grimaud hadn't run away years ago; now his silent presence was a comfort for his troubled spirit.

He traipsed around the room, his hot tea in his hands and his head on the awful snare of lies and deceptions that he spun around Raoul and around himself. Truth would be easier, but truth would be dangerous, and he refused to put Raoul in the line of fire. Porthos was a danger since he didn't know how to rein that big mouth of his. His friend deserved better but his son deserved the best. Athos' fingers pulled the ribbons of his doublet, his lips mumbled a silent curse to this hot summer, but heat was not the reason why he couldn't stand still.

"Athos..." Porthos' voice called him out. "La Fère!"

That voice sounded too distant, too soft even when his ears registered his friend's most rowdy tone. "du Vallon?"

"Parbleu, _M. le Comte_ , this is the twelfth time I call your name." Porthos tried to raise his heavy weight from the window's frame. His shoulders so slouched and his knees bent made his whole posture comic. "Could you please take this little truant on your care? He fell asleep without warning!"

"He graced you with his company two hours beyond his curfew," Athos said with a faint smile. His hand placed his untouched tankard on a small table. "I told you so beforehand."

"He never yawned," Porthos's eyes fell on Raoul who took his shuteye in the crook of his elbow, a faint smile in his lips, his fists close to his breast, "and he neither made a fuss"

In the chevalier du Vallon's big arms, his big boy's shape was as negligible as the one of a baby and Athos smiled as his own arms were extended to retrieve his treasure. "Let me take him."

Raoul sleeping form poured into his arms effortlessly, his head rested on his shoulder, in his favorite spot, and his hand clutched the doublet as he always did. Athos secured his hand under the child's bottom and smiled. He felt complete again, saddled with this precious lading. Porthos took him by surprise, his big hand reached behind Athos' head and placed a wet, noisy kiss on his unsuspecting brow; this unmitigated effrontery left Athos even more speechless than the usual.

"Give it to the boy when you put him to bed," Porthos said, his face beaming his good humor at his friend's face.

"A word would suffice next time," Athos said, still gob-smacked by the off-hand caress. "Rest assured I know how to kiss this boy good night."

"Then forgive my boldness, for I could never suspect how much the boy had thawed your heart," he said, his hand slapped Athos in the back, " _Peste!_ You have changed a great deal, my friend!"

As usual, Porthos had a knack for stating the obvious but Athos found this trait refreshing rather than annoying.

"Children do that to you, you will realize when your time comes." Athos fit Raoul's weight over his frame. "I'll take him to bed. Good night, du Vallon."

"Take him to bed and return for a nightcap." Porthos let out the suggestion with a finesse that took Athos unaware. "We have a lot to talk."

He gave Porthos a small nod and went for the door where Grimaud waited for him, candlestick in hand. They climbed two flights of stairs, in foreboding silence; in the darkness he could feel Grimaud fretting, that invitation was unsuitable for Athos' health; he knew it, but not heeding that appeal was unsuitable for Porthos' friendship. Athos would drink that night, just one cup, enough to make Porthos happy but not enough to make him sick. He had the will to take just one cup, no more. For this boy, to honor his valet's efforts: one and no more. As if they noticed his resolution, Raoul mumbled into his shoulder and Grimaud gritted his teeth, but Athos just keep going to their room.

With customary efficiency, Grimaud open the room door and let him review the contents, Athos noticed the big mattress bed and the humble cot at its foot-board. Not that his valet wasn't allowed to share his master's room but the fact he paid for his own bedding spoke volumes. Athos felt ashamed of himself; that humble bed was a reproach because he didn't think of his valet's accommodations.

Grimaud was getting old, but that did not prevent him from follow and serve at his best capacity, for while his master stood at the door he went and undo the bed, ready to help him with the young master. Athos placed the boy on the mattress; they took his clothes until his flimsy shirt was his only dressing. Athos leaned over his sleepy face and placed Porthos' kiss on his forehead, Raoul moaned and rolled on the bed, looking for refuge among the pillows.

Children... they never cease to surprise you.

"Grimaud," Athos whispered and signaled the bed, a silent order to lay his weight on the aforementioned place.

Grimaud, stubbornly, shook his head and signaled the cot.

Athos repeated his command, touch his eye and signaled Raoul.

A new shake, some hurried signals, the message was well abridged but comprehensible: Grimaud would watch the boy but he would wait for his master awake.

Athos rolled his eyes and gently slapped Grimaud on the nape, before repeating his order for a third time. He had no time or patience to manage around Grimaud's ornery pride.

As his manservant got ready to obey, Athos signaled the boy and the door and moved his two hands horizontally, the message got inside Grimaud's spirit and he laid his body next to Raoul's. Once the necessary agreements were made, Athos took the candle with him and get out the room.

"Come here, my wayward comrade!" Porthos greeted Athos with his loud voice before he could trespass the threshold. "My faithful Mousqueton found half a dozen of old Anjou. If I recall correctly it was your favorite."

"You will never get that right, eh, Porthos?" Athos placed the candlestick on the table and looked for his tankard; at least he could finish his tea before Porthos could do his best effort to get him sloshed.

"Do you miss something?"

"My tea."

"I tasted that dreadful concoction," Porthos replied approaching with a tumbler brimming with wine, "And then threw it through the window. That horrible brew was Satan's piss!"

"Do you kiss your wife with that mouth?"

"I have no other," Porthos put the tumbler in Athos' hand and made him close his fingers around it, "though I try to not cuss out around her... a propos, why do you punish your exquisite palate with such an atrocious brew?"

"Because I'm an old man, with old man aches."

"Faith! You are mocking me. You are almost as young as me!" Porthos took a tumbler from Mousqueton's hands and drained it in one gulp. "And for what I see you are even more fit than me. Anyway, how old are you?"

"Seven and thirty years, last spring," Athos informed him his hand toying with his wine. The weight of the metal tumbler pulling his wrist, the wet aroma of wine that anticipate its sour and acrid taste, his very stance with the drink in his hand brought back memories and made difficult to follow Porthos' conversation.

Porthos made a quick calculation with the fingers of his free hand and Athos smiled when he noticed his friend was reckoning the difference.

"Egad!" A pause, "There is a time, my dear Athos, when all must bow to the inevitable truth: You are old."

"Soon enough you will keep me nice company," Athos replied to his insult and, very cautiously, as if it were poison, he took a sip.

Frightful experience, like blaspheming on a church.

On Sunday.

Remembrance was almost hurtful; the earthy dry flavor of a wine whose days grew shorter in its way to the sourness, its bitter bite on the back of his mouth, and the tingle of warmth in its way towards his inwards. He didn't expect that his lips felt bone-dry, that his whole mouth was athirst and that his brain spurred him to hasten the rest of the wine, even when it was not the best vintage for his return to drinking. The effort to put down that recipient was making his shirt uncomfortably wet.

"... wife is almost as ripe and that didn't deter her from collect her rights, let me tell you," Porthos continued talking, oblivious of his friend's personal hell, "you better start to pile up parental advice on me because, God's willing, she can make me a daddy any of this days."

"I will refrain to do it. I refuse to be of those doting parents without another issue to talk about."

"Oh, come on!" A resounding slap on Athos' back, "The boy is delicious, witty and polite. You must tell me how you did it!"

"I'm not sure. Raoul is..." the hesitation on his voice was not due to the topic but to his growing necessity to drain the glass. "Raoul is a good boy."

"A good boy? A GOOD boy? You are not talking about a puppy, but about your son. God's grief, Athos! Wait until I tell Aramis!"

That was it.

Athos' resolution followed the tea and his hand poured the rest of the wine down through his gullet with a swift swing.

"Don't you ever dare to say so again," Athos declared pushing his friend away with the empty tumbler in his tightly closed fist.

By Porthos reaction Athos gathered he was a threatening image. His colors drained a little or that was the impression he had on the dim candlelight, his mustache bristled a bit and his eyes opened with a surprised expression that seemed out of place in a face like his. The pang of guilt drove deep into Athos' gut and he split from his friend with a huff.

"Is the boy truly your son?"

"No," Athos tore the bottle from a startled Mousqueton and help himself another dose. Repeating the lie was not making it easier: denying Raoul hurt him every time. "Raoul is an orphan, deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have brought him up. That's all."

"Is that true?"

"That is all you and the whole world would hear from my lips: An orphan boy," Athos gulped the wine, "a _charity_."

"Is that so?" Porthos preened his mustache, Athos saw him by the corner of his eye. "Well, it is, if you say so. Where is Grimaud?"

"Hopefully, asleep; More likely, in bed and wide awake." Another sip, "My old Grimaud need his rest."

"You are right." Porthos' big hand fell on his shoulder. "I don't need you for the rest of the night: Go and get your sleep, Mousqueton."

"But..." Athos felt like growling at the vacillation on the servant's voice. Instead, he took another mouthful. "Yes, thank you. Sleep well, master."

Porthos' heavy steps were heard on the parquet, Mousqueton's footsteps retreating on the stairs. They heard a heavy sigh, a closed door. Athos drank another gulp, fully aware that heartburn would make his morning a trip to hell from the inside, but thirst was so damnable and Porthos had hit hard a very sore spot. Old Anjou in his mouth, its taste of danger and of youthful foolhardiness; if he could still taste this special wine was because he was weak and despised himself for his feebleness. Athos laid his head against the window frame.

"Eh..." Porthos tapped his shoulder with something cool. It was a full bottle. "You'll need this."

A tremor of fear, a short gasp of panic; for a second, Athos felt about to ask his friend if he was trying to kill him; then he remembered Porthos knew nothing. The old lie spinning on his already wine-soaked brain. His fingers closed around the bottom almost against his will. If Porthos noticed something he made no comment, he just sat at the windowsill and swing his bottle without the aid of a tumbler.

Just like the old days.

They stayed by the window, tasting their wine, enjoying the breeze while the sounds on that inn faded away as its denizens went to sleep.

"Not my business," Porthos whispered when silence became too heavy, "but there is something you need to spit out."

"Nothing at all."

"You can't fool me. I'm not Aramis who couldn't care enough, I'm not d'Artagnan who cared far too much," he punched him slightly on the shoulder. "Come on. Tell it to Porthos."

"That name is still famous in Paris by the lack of discretion of its owner."

"I never told a soul about..."

"Porthos!"

"And they never heard a word relating to..."

"Enough!"

"At this moment you are pretty ungrateful..."

"You are not the only one who believes so."

"It is not that those were big secrets. I mean, not that I knew about your wife..."

"Let her lay still." Athos warned, feeling the renewed assault of his demon thirst.

"But if you allowed me to take part of the secret, I would keep it." Porthos took a healthy gulp when Athos didn't interrupt him. "That boy is your living portrait, a little more fair-colored, true, but he's a younger you from the toes to the glare, you can't deny him. _Parbleu!_ You can't put out a fire with a thimble of water! He will ask some darned questions very soon."

"He's asking them already." Athos lost the battle and gulped down another mouthful.

"What did you say him?"

"The same I said to you."

" _You_ lied to _your son_? I'm quite disappointed."

"He can't be my son. We would lose everything."

"Halt! Are you trading honesty for money? I don't know you anymore..."

"I don't know myself anymore..."

They huffed at each other and avoided the other's gaze while they sulked at the windowsill. Somehow serious words were the hardest to exchange between them, but, strangely, those were the kind of words they always ended up swapping between sips of alcohol. Athos could advice d'Artagnan, and argue politely with Aramis, but the darkest, hurtful affairs always ended up on joyful Porthos' lap. No one else help him to unburden his soul better than this big Picard.

"Please explain it to me because I don't get it," Porthos insisted once he felt they had enough time to cool their heads. "It's not like you are the first noble with a bastard child. Henri IV made almost a fashion statement out of it!"

"I wasn't noble when Raoul was begotten."

"Weren't you? You surely looked the part."

"No, if you marry a criminal, you are not." Athos sighed on his drink. "Raoul is the son of a forgotten, obscure soldier who dared to touch a woman way above his station. That man is no more."

"Tell me about the mother."

"You know I mustn't talk about a lady."

"Not even the basics?"

A new despondent sip from the tumbler, "she was blonde."

Porthos spat his wine through the window. "And here I was, thinking you were cured from blondes!"

"Yeah," Athos agreed, his hand was serving another drink, "me too."

Porthos booted him playfully on the thigh and Athos tried to evade the blow. Just like the old days, that gesture was a way to convey the message he had been an idiot; it was a miracle they still can manage through old signals.

"So, no one is to know Raoul is yours?"

"Nobody, not d'Artagnan, nor Aramis," Athos downed another tumbler; so much for self-restraint. "Not even Raoul himself."

"Because you are protecting a blonde lady you mustn't talk about."

Athos thought about Marie de Rohan before giving Porthos an answer. Apart of the fact she gave birth to Raoul, he owed her nothing. In Roche-l'Abeille, his flesh was weak, his will was nonexistent, his mind was feeble; but his honor, though rather mauled, was intact: he didn't seduce her. No, he wasn't keeping his mouth shut to protect the false honor of that woman.

"No, I do it because I want Raoul to have the very best I can offer him."

"And the best you can offer him is a lie, for money."

"Children need things. Things cost hard currency." Athos fidgeted his drink. Talking about money was something obscene for him. "You know me, Porthos; I can abide by the barest minimum, but Raoul... This year alone, he had worn to tatters three pairs of shoes and it will get worse when he get older and need his own horse and sword. Our musketeer wages would never ever pay what Raoul needs."

"But you don't need to rely on wages. You're a Count!"

"Obviously, you don't understand. Let me be clear: if my family ever knows Raoul is my son, I'll be a Count no more."

Porthos' stunned silence made him understand he drove the point home.

"Pride?" He asked finally while Athos took another sip.

"Fear," Athos placed the tumbler on the windowsill. "What would you choose, Porthos? I'm curious. Being of nobility, without ever acknowledge this son, and see him grow up like a person of quality? Or being a soldier, proud of your child, but to see him cry when you can't find some bread for him to eat?"

Athos studied Porthos under the moonlight, his features seemed almost chiseled by the age; he was a little bit out of shape, but Athos recognized his friend and the way he carries the bottle to his lips. He was weighting the question and the answer he would give to it with absolute earnestness. Athos respected this and kept his silence.

Porthos raised his bottle slowly and offered him the bottom to toast: "To your ward"

"And your wife," clashing his tumbler against it, understanding him completely.

They drank a mouthful, for them it was even better than to issue a sacred vow. Wine was the blood that keeps their friendship alive.

"Since this will be the last time we shall talk about this knotty topic, I have some questions I want to do before it's too late."

"Be my guest."

"Is he your son?"

"A fact well known in this world, Porthos, is that the only thing you can't deny is your own mother." Athos gulped the wine in a desperate attempt to avoid confession. Porthos was not fooled. Better end it quickly, like pressing a hot iron on a bleeding wound. "I consorted with a blond woman in the town where this child was abandoned, on the date stated on the note inside the purse filled with gold that accompanied him. Did I carry the child on my belly to assert beyond the shadow of doubt that he's my son?" Porthos let out a roar of laughter. Athos snickered and said: " The answer is no. I didn't, but it is a safe bet to say I could be his father."

"So, you know the mother. Can we say she's...? How did you put it?"

"A person of quality?"

"Yes. Is she a person of quality?"

"Barring the fact the child is a bastard, Raoul worth his weight in silver, or a duchy at least."

"Did you bang the Queen?"

Athos slapped Porthos in the shoulder, with the immemorial gesture of an elder brother chastising the younger: "I told you there are things with which you are not allowed to jest."

"I beg your forgiveness," Porthos said, undaunted by the slight punishment, "also; I beg to be this child's godfather the day he takes the sacrament."

"Consider it done. Now, I must go to sleep."

"Night's still young and the wine's still free."

"But you didn't fight with barristers half of the day nor kept an eye on a toddler the rest of it."

"Right, you must be tired. Old men tire so easily..." Porthos left the windowsill and almost crushed Athos when he tried to hug him good night. "Sleep well. Not a word of this night shall leave my lips until the day I die."

"Must be the wine," Athos said, responding the best he could to the hug, "but, despite your reputation as a blabbermouth, I do believe you."

Laughing, Porthos lead him to the door and let him go to his room, not without making him know that breakfast was on his own. Athos protested, but Porthos heeded him not, replaced the tumbler with the candlestick on Athos' hand and pushed him through the threshold, as if forbidding him to say another word.

As Athos climbed the first flight of stairs he found himself reflecting on human flawed nature and in its feebleness, both in share the secrets and in matters of drink. A part of his addled brain was berating him about his weakness; the other was patting his back because he was still able to trust on people. Spirits play some nasty tricks on people's minds. The second flight of stairs cost him a lot more of effort, because his body took its toll on this night on the tiles in the form of a gripping pain on his right side that force him to kneel on the steps until it faded away.

Decidedly, Athos thought when he finally rested his weight on the humble cot of his valet; he had to stop drinking on a permanent basis.


End file.
